Was she angry about the fireworks? He had thought she would love them. A memory of work she adored. Of the happiest moment of his life—the night he married her.
Instead, she kept marching, right into his arms, and beat her wee fist against his chest.
“How. Could. You?!” she gasped, punctuating each word with her hand.
The force of her blows caught him off-guard.
Kieran stumbled back a step, reaching for her elbow. But his heel hit on a footstool, and he ended up tripping, tumbling to the ground, pulling her with him.
She landed on his chest with anoof, hair pins scattering.
More to the point, she stayed there.
She did not scramble off.
She did not back away.
No.
She crawled more firmly on top of him and grasped his head between her small hands.
“You idiotic, imbecilic, ridiculous, impossible—” Her voice broke.
She collapsed onto his chest, gusting sobs tearing through her, hands gripping his coat in two fists.
Blinking, Kieran wrapped his arms around her and held her close.
He stared at the ceiling.
Uhmmm.
So . . .
“Eilidh? Lass?” He jostled her with his shoulder. “What has happened?”
She pushed up, a hand on the carpet beside his head, looking down at him through a cascade of dark, tousled hair.
“You w-would have l-let me go!” she hiccupped. “You p-promised me. Never l-let ye go. You vowed!”
Kieran froze.
Never let ye go.
Those words . . .
Hehadpromised her that . . .
He pushed upright, heart galloping.
Eilidh slid backward, moving off his chest, easing down to sit beside him.
“What did ye say?” he whispered.
She glared at him.
And that’s when he saw it.
She was . . .
